CHAPTER 38
“Yacu!” shouted Chaupi as the mud-choked floodwaters carried his little boy downhill toward the river.
“Tayta!” screamed the boy.
The churning current dragged him along like driftwood.
“Come on, Beck!” I hollered. “Time to swim like we’re in shark-infested waters again!”
“Right behind ya!”
“Wait, you two!” shouted Dad.
We disobeyed Dad’s order and dove into the muddy gully washer as it streaked down the slick slope toward the swollen river. I could see Yacu’s head bobbing in the choppy waves.
“Hang on, Yacu!” I cried. “We’re coming!”
Since Beck and I were the closest in age and weight to the six-year-old boy, the rushing flood seemed to carry us along at almost the same pace as it was carrying him. Fortunately, all those years living on the Lost had made us both excellent swimmers—no matter the conditions.
While I kicked my legs and worked my arms, I couldn’t help thinking that this was what happened when you chopped down way too many trees in the rain forest: there weren’t enough roots in the ground to stop the earth from sloughing off and washing away in a downpour.
Behind me, I heard a mighty crunch and a jumble of twisting snaps.
I glanced over my shoulder.
The flood had just bowled down the shelter we’d all been standing under and sent it sailing toward us.
“We can use this!” I said.
“How?” cried Beck.
“We can ride the roof downstream to rescue Yacu!”
“Good idea.”
Beck and I swam over to the floating hut and hauled ourselves up onto its slanted top.
“Hang on, Yacu!” I cried. “We’re coming!”
“And,” added Beck, “we’re bringing a boat. A houseboat!”
Beck lay facedown on the roof. She jabbed her feet through the thatching and braced them against a beam. I walked along the peak until I reached the edge of the roof, right in front of Beck.
“Grab my ankles!” I shouted.
“Got ’em!”
The hut swung sideways. We were parallel with the boy being washed downstream in the raging rapids.
With Beck holding my legs, I crouched down.
Yacu was coughing and spitting out everything the angry river was forcing him to swallow.
I lunged forward. Beck tightened her grip.
I went underwater for a swirling second but sprang right back up to the surface.
I grabbed Yacu’s hand. He grabbed mine.
He was shivering, but he was safe.
He hugged me. I hugged him back.
“I’ve got you,” I told him. “And I’m not letting go!”
The rain stopped as quickly as it had begun.
Our floating shed snagged itself on a dam of rocks and mud and lumber that the flood had left in its wake.
The sun peeked through the clouds. When it did, I realized why the ancient Incas might’ve worshipped it—because the sun usually brings good things and puts an end to the bad ones.
Like the rains that tried to wash away our new friend’s youngest son.